Chapter 18 Coming Home #2
“For fuck's sake—Stop apologizing!” I shouted, startling both of us.
I am not a big curser … well, that's not true—I just don't usually drop F-bombs. So, more quietly I said, “Stop it. I don’t want your apologies anymore, Caden. I want your attention. I want your effort. I want you to fight for me—for us.”
“I will,” he said desperately. “I am.”
“The flowers in Miami were beautiful,” I said, my voice getting quiet again.
He looked confused. “What flowers?”
“Exactly.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I sent myself flowers. For my birthday. From a woman who finally remembered she was worth celebrating.”
Understanding dawned on his face. “Felicity…”
“I’m not the same woman who left four days ago either, Caden,” I continued.
“I’m not going to disappear again. I’m not going to make myself smaller to fit into the spaces you've left behind. If we are going to work, you need to make room for all of me. The quiet parts, angry parts, the demanding parts, the parts that need more than you’ve been giving.
You need to see me without me having to tell you or having to give you direction on what I need from you. ”
“I want all of you,” he said without hesitation. “I want to make room for all of you—I will make room for all of you.”
I walked to the window and looked out at the backyard, at the garden I’d planted and tended mostly alone. The roses needed deadheading. The weeds were taking over the herb bed. Another metaphor for our marriage—me doing all the maintenance while he focused elsewhere.
“Do you remember why I planted that garden?” I asked.
“Because you wanted fresh herbs for cooking?”
I turned back to him. I huffed out a breath.
“No. I planted it the year your company almost went under. When you were working eighteen-hour days and coming home exhausted and distant. I needed something that was mine, something that would grow because I cared for it. Something that would respond to my attention.”
His face crumpled. “Oh, God.”
“I’ve been tending that garden for three years. Do you know—you’ve never once asked me about it. Never noticed when I brought in fresh basil for dinner or when the tomatoes were ready. It was right outside your office window, and you never saw it.”
“I see it,” he whispered.
“Do you? Or are you just saying that because I’m pointing it out?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could see him thinking, really thinking.
After a minute I asked, "Caden?"
"Wait—just give me a second?" He looked at his feet, going silent again. And then, “you planted the rosemary in the corner because you read that it’s supposed to mean remembrance,” he said slowly. “And the lavender along the path because it helps you sleep when you’re stressed. The tomatoes are heirloom varieties because you said grocery store tomatoes taste like water. And you put the bench there so you could sit and read in the morning with your coffee.”
I stared at him, shocked. “You…wait, what?!” I was speechless.
“I know I'm not always present. I miss things.
I've checked out. But I honestly still know you in my heart. When everything happened, I sat and tried to remember all the things you like, all the things about you I should know without trying to dig in my brain.” he said simply.
“Then I remembered that there is a deeper part of my heart that just knows you. I love you, Felicity. I'm a complete screw up. I know I got so lost in everything else that I forgot to show you. But I see how you take care of everyone around you. I see how you make Macy feel special when she’s here, how you give your heart. You leave small notes around for me. You give the most amazing hugs. Your heart is a beautiful thing. I failed to protect it. And I will never make that mistake again.”
Tears were flowing freely now. “Then why didn’t any of that matter when it came to remembering my birthday? How can you say these things without me now? Where was all this then?”
“Because I’m an idiot,” he said simply. “Because I got comfortable thinking you’d always be there, always be understanding, always be willing to wait for me to have time for you. Because I took your strength for granted and forgot that strong people can break too.”
“I did break,” I whispered. “That night with the purse. I broke completely.”
“I know. I saw it happen and I was too stupid to understand what I was watching—even though I was right there in the middle of it.”
“I’ve felt so alone, Caden. Alone in this marriage, alone in this house, alone in my own life. Do you have any idea what that feels like—any idea what it has been like to be me?”
“I don't. And I could never.” he said quietly.
“You would never put me in that position—not like I did you.
But this last week. This time without you—not knowing if you would even come home—if you would give me a chance…
they have been heartbreaking. I've never felt lonelier in my life, and just the thought that my small taste of what you experienced over these last few years—I can't even pretend to imagine. I. Am. So. Fucking. Sorry.”
I looked around, needing to see anything—anything but the pure sincerity and remorse on his face. "This home of ours—you know it's almost stopped feeling like home,” I said. “Almost like a place I was staying. One with memories, but unlikely hope of a future.”
“What can I do to make it feel like home again?”
I looked around the kitchen—at the evidence of his effort, at the flowers Macy had chosen, at the meal he’d prepared with his own hands instead of ordering takeout or asking me to cook.
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly. “But this is a start.”
“There’s something else,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “From Macy. She emailed me tonight.”
He handed me his phone, and I read her message, my heart breaking and mending at the same time.
“She’s a good kid,” I whispered. "I wish—" I paused, handing him back the phone, and unsure of how to continue.
"What? You can tell me anything. I swear, I'm here to listen now. Now and forever."
"I don't know. I feel this weird sensation. It's hard to explain. I…I feel torn."
"Torn?"
"Yeah. Trying for so long to have a kid. Trying and failing." The tears that had finally dried started again. I knew this was one of those things—one of the issues between us that had no solution.
"Felicity." I heard his sigh. Thinking he was exasperated by the topic, I responded, "I know. I know it's done. I get it. Nevermi—"
"No!" He said sharply, then dialing his volume back he repeated, "no.
I don't mean don't talk about it. I meant—I don't know.
I guess I just meant that I get it. I feel the same way.
Like I wish things had worked out but at the same time I'd hate if there was a little person of our own stuck in the middle of this pain. "
Sighing, my shoulders slumped. "Yeah—that's exactly what I mean and how I feel.
" I looked down at my stomach, the one that had never carried a life to term.
The one that had failed me. I laid my hand on across my abdomen, remembering the feeling of life that had been there for only a few moments, never to see the light of day. "Yeah," I whispered.
He reached for me, then pulled back. We both knew that we weren't there yet—in a place where touch was right. Not yet.
I stood up straight and looked around the kitchen again—at the flowers, the clean counters, the care he’d taken to make this space welcoming.
“You know what the hardest part of everything was?” I said suddenly.
“It wasn’t the forgotten birthdays or the delegated gifts.
It was being alone. It was feeling like I didn’t matter enough for you to try.
Like after you poured yourself into your work, after I poured myself into mourning our loss, what we had together just wasn’t enough to hold us together on its own and I didn't matter.”
“You matter more than anything,” he said fiercely. “You matter more than work, more than anything. I lost sight of that, but I see it now.”
“This doesn’t fix us,” I said.
“I know.”
“We have a lot of work to do.”
“I know.”
“It's work we probably should have been doing already.”
"I know."
"So what now?"
He looked at me. "I think we should see someone—like a therapist, I mean."
I know surprised was splashed across my face. "Really? You’d do that? Go to couples' counseling?"
“There is something here that broke between us. Yes, I'm so much at fault, I can't even explain it. But I also recognize that rebuilding what we had—or building something new—I'm not… I just…I don't—I don't want to fuck it up any more than I already have Felicity.” His voice was fierce.
I wanted to believe him. That he was willing to do this. God, I wanted to believe him. But wanting and trusting were two very different things.
"I can't," I said quietly. "I can't just take your word for it anymore, Caden. Not after everything."
His face fell, but he nodded. "What do you need from me?"
"Time," I said. "And proof. Real, sustained proof that this isn't just another crisis you'll solve and then forget about when life gets busy again."
"I'm in. I mean it, Felicity. I will do anything and everything for the rest of our lives if that's what it takes to prove it."
I wrapped my arms around myself. "I'll find someone. A therapist. Make the appointments."
"Let me look? Is that okay? I don’t want you to have to do it. I fucked up, I should have to do the work. I can call the insurance and get a list. Then how about you and I talk through the list together and decide together."
"That's good. I like that. Thank you."
We stood there in the kitchen, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
"The food smells good," I said finally, because I was hungry and exhausted.
"It's probably overcooked by now."
"I don't care."
But as he moved toward the oven, I added quietly, "I'm still sleeping in the guest room."
He stopped. "Okay."
"For a while. Maybe a long while."
"I understand."
"This conversation—tonight—it's not forgiveness, Caden. It's just acknowledgment that we both see the problem now."
"I know."
We ate mostly in silence. The food tasted like memory and effort and something I couldn't name. When we finished, I stood up.
"I should unpack."
"Do you need—"
"No. I can handle it."
Upstairs in the guest room, I sat on the bed and looked around at the space that would be mine for now. Maybe for a long time. Through the window, I could see my garden in the moonlight—overgrown but still there, still growing despite neglect.
I unpacked slowly, hanging my clothes in the closet. I put the new ones from Miami in the front. They made me smile. No matter what I was feeling right this moment, I could still smile at the thought of what this last weekend meant for me.
At the bottom of my suitcase, I found the receipt from the hotel spa and a few other mementos from my trip.
The postcard I'd mailed to myself wouldn't arrive for a few days—with the postmark timestamping the end to my experience there—leaving with me a future reminder of the woman who'd remembered she was worth celebrating.
I thought about that woman, dancing barefoot on the beach, laughing with strangers who'd become friends for a night. She felt both like me and like someone I was still trying to become.
I turned off the light and lay in the dark, listening to him moving around downstairs, and wondered if wanting to fix something was enough when you weren't sure it could be fixed.